R & R
by Partly
Summary: Spies are, by necessity and nature, task oriented people.


_Spies are, by necessity and nature, task oriented people. When you're on a job every thing thing you do – from how you talk and dress to what you eat to where you live – is part of the job. Make a mistake, change the smallest detail, forget the most inconsequential-seeming trivia and you may get shipped home in a plain pine box. It's a high-octane, stress filled life but, once you get a taste for it, it's the only life worth living. For a spy, the worst thing to have to do is nothing._

"Come on, Mikey," Sam cajoled from the other side of the table, "loosen up a little. You've got to learn to appreciate these rare moments of peace when they come. I mean, how often do we actually get a whole week of nothing but quiet?" He took a long pull on his beer, then eyed the one that sat, untouched, in front of me. "And don't ever expect me to buy another round if you don't plan on drinking yours."

I frowned at the beer, picked it up and examined it for a moment, and then titled it back toward Sam. He sighed deeply, but took the beer.

"Fine, but the next round is on you, whether you drink or not." He set his empty bottle aside and studied me. "I don't know why you're so down. Barry's working on those routing numbers you gave him, Carla and her boys haven't bothered you for a week, Fi is making some sort of deal up in Sarasota and your mom is off visiting an old friend down in the Keys." He leaned back in his chair and grinned at me. "What more could you ask for?" He paused a moment as his eyes tracked a couple of bikini-clad women as they walked past. "Well, maybe there is something…"

I let his monologue wash over me and drummed my fingers on that table. I could sit in a sniper's perch for two days without moving, tracking the comings and goings of a terrorist training camp, but after 15 minutes in a beachside bar, I was done. "Listen, Sam, I think—"

He raised his hand, cutting me off. "I know, I know. You got to get back to your place to, what? Clean you guns again? Run through the same intel you've been studying for the past two weeks? Do another 100 sit-ups?" He shook his head. "You would totally fail as a SEAL."

The non sequitur caught me off guard. "What?"

"Sure, you could pass all the physical requirements, but you wanna know the most important aspect of being a SEAL?"

I was really quite sure I didn't, but I knew that saying so wouldn't stop Sam from telling me anyway.

"Knowing how to relax! Knowing how to enjoy all this." He gestured widely at the bar around him. "What's the point of savin' the world on a daily basis if you don't ever stop and _really_ live in it?"

"And you think that a couple beers in a bar by the beach qualifies?"

"Don't forget about the girls, Mike. And if the next round's a mojito, that might help, too."

I shook my head. "Sorry, Sam. It's just not for me." I stood to leave.

"Wait." Sam leaned forward and set the beer down. "If you really want to something to do, I may have something."

There was a slight change in his tone of voice that set off the warning bells in the back of my head. "You have a job?" A week of quiet may be relaxing to Sam, but it put me on edge.

"Well, not really a job. More of a favor for a friend." He must have noticed my skepticism because he rushed on. "I didn't mention it because it's not really our kind of thing. I mean, it's just a one-person job – a harmless little pick-up and delivery for the gal I'm seeing. I was going to do it tomorrow, but if you're up for it, I figure we could do it today."

I sighed. I'd been on "harmless little pick-up and deliveries" before. They usually didn't end well.

"Come on, Mike. I'll do all the heavy lifting. All you've got to do is ride along. You tellin' me you'd rather be home, alone, than take a nice drive up to Fort Lauderdale on a milk run?"

_There are a few things that every spy learns the hard way. Not all good guys are good. Not all bad guys are irredeemable. Silver linings are usually riddled with bullet holes. Good deeds are rarely rewarded. And there's no such thing as a milk run._

Sam wasn't kidding about the heavy lifting. We picked up a van at an electronics storehouse on the south side of Miami. There were some unlabeled crates already in the back, but two surly looking dockworkers helped Sam pack four more of them in before we took off.

Sam didn't seem concerned about the cargo, but boxes of unlabeled electronics were never good in my experience. I also noticed that we were closely followed by a green sports car. Sam wasn't openly concerned, yet he took a series of back streets instead of a main road. The sports car left us at one of the turns, but a white Ford replaced it and followed us to another electronics warehouse. This time he loaded in a dozen or so smaller boxes, also unlabeled. The Ford parked in the lot next door.

As we pulled out of the lot, I noticed that a dark sedan followed us out.

"Do you know what we're hauling here, Sam?"

"Not exactly. Paperwork on this kind of thing is left up to the individual. Makes it easier that way."

Before I could ask what "this kind of thing" was, Sam took a sharp left onto the highway. The sedan turned a second later. I hadn't brought a gun along and Sam seemed unconcerned, but the whole situation was beginning to really eat at me.

"This women you're seeing…" I started.

"Jennifer," Sam supplied.

"Jennifer," I said. "What does she do?"

"She's got a great job. Works in the import division of Wagner Enterprises. You should meet her, Mike. She's the youngest executive in her department. We met at a beer tasting, if you can believe it. Our eyes met over a glass of Russian Bock. It was love at first sight."

Sam took an exit, followed by two more turns. The sedan stayed with us.

"Wagner Enterprises? What do they do?"

Sam laughed. "Haven't got any idea. To tell you the truth, Mikey, Jennifer talks about her job a lot but it's all Greek to me."

In all the time that I've known Sam, I've never had cause to think that he was ever really foolish – except when it came to women. "Sam, do you know what you're doing here?"

He just waved a hand at me. "I know, I know. I just got out of a relationship. But this could be the real thing. And it's more than the beer thing, too. Ooops, here's our last stop." Sam hit the brakes and made a tight turn into the loading area of a large surplus store. "You wait here, I'll grab someone who knows what we get."

Sam was out of the door before I could stop him. I looked around for the sedan, but it was nowhere in sight. That didn't make me feel any better. I debated following Sam, but then ducked into the back of the van instead. If I could find out what we were delivering, maybe I could figure out what Sam had gotten us into.

Five minutes later, I still hadn't a clue. The large crates contained televisions and the smaller boxes held game consoles. None of them were in their original packaging, but none of them looked tampered with, either. Sam returned just as I popped out the back.

"They have a cartful of boxes, but we should be able to get them in here. Then we can head over to St. Bartholomew's."

"Wait!" I stopped Sam before he could walk away. "What are you talking about?"

Sam gave me a look that clearly said he thought I was crazy. "The St. Bartholomew's orphanage. These are donations for the fundraising auction that they have every year."

"Donations?" I suddenly knew I was missing something big.

"Yeah. You know how stuff always gets damaged in shipping, right? Well, Jennifer talked to the shippers and suppliers and distributers and she got them to donate all those damaged goods to the auction." He grinned. "I tell you, she's amazing."

A harried looking warehouse worker pushed a dolly over to the van. "The boss says you can have these." He waved at the boxes. "But I have to get back inside, so you're going to have to load them." He looked accusingly at Sam. "You were scheduled to be here tomorrow, you know!" He headed back inside before Sam could answer.

"Sorry, Mike. Do you mind?" Sam gestured to the boxes.

"No." I picked up the top box – unlabeled, but a quick look inside showed it contained a portable DVD player – and set it in the van. I thought back to the warehouses we were at before and the workers who helped Sam load up the cargo. Maybe they weren't so much disreputable as merely stressed, asked to do something a day earlier than planned. Unlabeled boxes of electronics didn't always indicate a terrorist conspiracy any more than three separate cars meant a tail. Amateur mistakes, all. I should've known better.

As we packed, Sam continued to talk about Jennifer and how wonderful a person she was for doing all this. It was then I realized what my biggest mistake of the day had been: I hadn't trusted Sam. Years in the SEALS and working on the shady side of black ops could make anyone cynical and jaded, yet Sam had made it out the other side still one of the good guys. Somehow, I'd lost track of that.

"You all right, Mikey?" Sam peered at me. "You look a little… lost."

I almost laughed. "No, I'm fine. But maybe you're right. Maybe I do need to relax a little. After we get back, why don't we get something to eat. I'll even spring for the mojitos."

Sam grinned. "Now you're talking. I knew you'd come around!"

_As an operative, you live knowing that every detail may save or end your life. That the one thing that you don't notice may be the one thing that will get you killed. When you're a spy, when you're on a mission, hyper-vigilance is a way of life._

_When you don't have a mission, though, hyper-vigilance can turn into paranoia. And paranoia can get you killed, too. The trick, it seems, is to know when you need to relax._

_Or, if you're really lucky, to have a friend who can point it out._


End file.
